


night time almost ours

by depthsofgreen



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Character Study, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Light BDSM, M/M, Spanking, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen
Summary: Oswald watches The Riddler at work, long-dormant desires stirred within him. He's forced to realize, though, that the things he wants are not necessarily things he can healthily have.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning** for exploration of Oswald's post-3x14 trauma, and some attempted sex play that goes awry as a result.

Eyeing himself carefully in a mirror, Oswald tightens the silk purple fabric of his tie closer ‘round his neck, leaving the grip of it just slightly too snug. He turns and smooths his pants down where they’ve bunched up slightly at his hip before impatience gets the better of him and he pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking the time.

_7:24 PM_. Oswald frowns.

He brings the phone up to his ear with a push of a button. It rings once, twice, three times before he hears a click and Ed’s voice, soft and apologetic: “Oswald.”

“Ed,” Oswald replies, relief warming his body like a blush. “Where are you? You were supposed to be here nine whole minutes ago and you _know_ our dinner reservations are - “

“Sorry, sorry,” Ed breathes, rushed. “I got roped into doing a favor for Selina and, well. Needless to say, said favor wasn’t as _compliant_ as I thought he was going to be - “

“A favor,” Oswald sighs. “Well, are you finished? If we lose our table I will be deeply displeased - “

“Please,” Ed scoffs. “No underpaid hostess in their right mind is going to risk life and limb to give _Oswald Cobblepot’s_ table away.”

“Very few in Gotham are in their _right mind_ , hostesses or not - “

“We could arrive three solid hours after closing time and still find the entire restaurant staff eagerly awaiting us,” Ed insists.

Oswald smiles at that despite himself. Ed oft excels at evading his wrath with these rushes of strategic flattery. It helps that he’s usually _right_.

“Fine,” Oswald concedes, the word shaped by a pout that can’t quite conceal the pleased tremor in his voice. “But hurry.”

“On it,” Ed assures him. “Actually - why don’t you head over here and then we can leave together? You’re always talking about what a _pity_ it is I never let you see me at work.”

“Ohh,” Oswald exhales, delighted. “Yes. Yes, okay. You’re at your usual haunt, I take it?”

“You got it. See you soon.”

Oswald hears what sounds like a zap of electricity and a howl of pain before the line goes dead.

Smiling with amusement and something like pride, he tightens his tie just a touch further and heads out, fingers tingling.

***

Oswald steps into Ed’s favorite of abandoned Gotham warehouses to _quite_ the sight: Ed, done up in full Riddler gear, purple domino mask contouring his face and that massive cane of his in hand, standing long and lean as a knife before some blindfolded fool, perched uncomfortably in a chair with his hands bound above his head and his legs roped to the wall, stretched out straight.

Ed must hear Oswald come in but gives no indication, eyes trained with heated focus on the bound man before him.

Moving closer, Oswald notices spiky bands made of a material he can’t identify encircling each of the man’s outstretched limbs. Ed is standing, back straight, with a remote control in his hand.

Oswald can only _imagine_ what’s in store.

“Now,” Ed announces, bending down to where the man is spread across his chair and grabbing him roughly by the chin. “Here’s how this is going to work. I ask my question. You answer.”

Ed’s voice is a low growl, the rumble of it rasping down Oswald’s spine, goosebumps forming beneath the layers of his suit.

“If you fail to do what you have been very _simply_ tasked with doing,” Ed squeezes his hold on the man’s face, earning a whimper, “I will push this button on the remote I’m holding after each failure.”

The bound man emits a shaking breath. Ed grins at the sound of it, eyes sparkling.

Oswald feels very hot, suddenly, hand sweaty at the handle of his cane where he’s gripping it tight.

“What does this button do, you’re wondering?” Ed’s voice is higher now, almost musical as he bounces on his toes with unbridled delight. “Each time I hit this, those bands around your skinny wrists and ankles will _contract_.”

Ed brings his face closer to the man’s. His fingernails dig into the reddened flesh of his face.

“I could _tell_ you why you’re going to want to avoid letting _that_ happen, but! We have an audience now, and you have been _most_ difficult, so. Why not a demonstration instead?”

Ed drags out each syllable, thick and cruelly perverse.

With an upward twist of his mouth, Ed slowly sinks his thumb into the comically large button of the device he’s holding in hand.

There’s an awful slicing whirring round, followed immediately by a blood-curdling scream that makes even Oswald wince.

Ed’s eyes are closed, face rapturous and arms dramatically raised at his sides as though he’s conducting the howls filling the air.

When the sounds cease, Ed hits the button again, a fresh throb of yells vibrating around them, the shrill texture of the sound deepened by Ed’s laughter, throaty and loud.

Bands of blood drip down the undersides of the man’s arms and onto the floor beneath his feet. There are tears streaking his face. Ed wipes them away, a faux-caress, then smacks his hand across it, the sharp impact of its sound cutting through Oswald’s senses like a blade.

“Now,” Ed says once the room has quieted again, “I’m sure you’d like to avoid those nasty things digging any deeper into your skin.”

The man whimpers in affirmation. Ed cackles.

Oswald is trembling.

“So -  you are going to tell me the code for the - “

The man interrupts him to yell out a string of numbers, hoarse and desperate.

“Oh,” Ed replies, almost put out. “I didn’t even get to ask. Well. Good.”

Ed rips the blindfold roughly off the man’s face, watching with distaste as he sobs with relief.

“You put up a decent fight for a bit there, I must admit,” Ed smiles, “But I always win in the end.”

Ed drops the blindfold to the ground and places the remote control on a nearby table.

“I’ll have my friend Catwoman come collect you,” Ed says flatly as he walks past him toward Oswald, lips twisting pleasurably when the man lets slip a moan of distress.

Ed takes Oswald by the hand when he reaches him, touch soft and smile warm, and they walk out together.

“Are you alright?” Ed asks once they’re outside, air cold and sky blue-black above them. “You’re not angry about us being late, are you? Because I already reminded you - “

“No,” Oswald assures him, giving his hand a squeeze, “I just haven’t seen you _in action_ like that since - “

_Since I was on the receiving end of it all those years ago_ goes unsaid.

Ed’s steps slow, mouth a worried line.

“It was all a bit _intense_ and needlessly complicated though, wasn’t it?” Oswald keeps his tone light, referring back to the scene he just saw, eager to ease Ed’s palpable anxiety. “Though I suppose ‘intense and needlessly complicated’ is your M.O.”

“Well, don’t waste emotional energy feeling pity for the slimeball,” Ed laughs. “He’s a real creep, according to Selina.”

“I’m sure.”

“So beyond finding them _needlessly complicated_ , what’d you think of the bands? I’ve been itching to use them on Batman but it was nice to get a practice run first. And with you as a test audience, all the better.”

“They were imaginative as ever,” Oswald says. “Now you just need a nifty name for them the papers can report on once they’re used publicly on someone that _matters_.”

“Let’s brainstorm over dinner?” Ed’s smile is bright, teeth very white in the dim dark of the evening.

“Absolutely,” Oswald smiles back.

As they walk, Ed’s hand slipping to settle around his waist, Oswald has to swallow down the confused emotional lump lodged in his throat.

***

After dinner, Ed had seen Oswald back to his place and Oswald had politely but firmly gone inside, alone, leaving Ed to his own devices for the night. It wasn’t an altogether surprising move from Oswald, who craved sex the way one experienced food cravings: occasionally, and intensely, but not always.

Oswald’s refusal is different tonight, though, a stir pulling at his loins and buzzy static swirling in his brain, the two synthesizing into something that feels like nausea in the pit of his belly.

That seeing Ed work on that helpless man had unsettled Oswald was clear, but the reason for this internal wobble less so. It was not simply that it had awoken Oswald’s old trauma, the memory of clothed legs spread across a car top and Ed’s hand across his face (though that was, no doubt, part of it).

What Oswald was dwelling on more profoundly was this strange _heat_ in his body when he thought back on it, the forceful grumble of Ed’s voice and the savage grace of those strong steady hands, inflicting pain as Ed laughed, laughed, laughed, eyes aglow.

Oswald realizes with an ugly twist in his gut that it’s _desire_ he’s feeling, jealousy, even, an absurd notion given that Oswald _has_ been at the mercy of those merciless hands once and hadn’t enjoyed it, not even for a second, and _yet_ , here he is, reflecting on the reverberating power of Ed’s demands and feeling red-gold flame flicker within him.

The force of it, that detached yet impassioned coldness, had reminded Oswald, vaguely, then _strongly_ , of Fish, all that time ago, demanding Oswald rub her feet, fetch her drinks, and that one time he’d displeased her and she’d forced him to beg forgiveness, down on all fours, her entire staff watching, amused, Oswald’s cheeks burning with shame and fury but something retroactively pleasant, too. He’d _hated_ her, the unbudging reality of the power over him she held, but the tinkling jangle of the memory in his head, stripped of that context....it struck something in him. Something sheepish but hungry.

He imagines himself, quite against his will, on all fours again before Ed, _begging_ , as he’s begged Ed before but with no _real_ danger this time, stakes illusory, Oswald laid vulnerable before him in terms _he_ has decided, control in his hands even as he surrenders it entirely.

Oswald shivers, going stiff in his pants, before shaking his head. Banishing the thought, the _want_.

It didn’t do to dwell on this. It could never be, not after what Ed said ( _I don’t love you_ , years ago now, but Oswald still feels the sting of it, the trace of it with every smile Ed gives him). Not after what Ed _did_ , the physical scar of it etched ugly on Oswald’s skin, the mental scar tissue even uglier.

It was behind them, part of them, and Oswald felt a sometimes-wavering but ever-returning peace in their odd life together. Some things, though, it had regrettably closed off forever. _This_ , Oswald’s willing submission, unyielding trust and surrender... _that_ it had certainly made impossible.

Sighing, then stiffening his back with resolve, Oswald heads to his bedroom, willing away the disconcerting heat warming him from within.

***

Still, _still_ , he finds himself a week later, gasping and red-faced on his back, Ed moving within him, a hand pinning Oswald’s wrist down behind him.

“Harder,” Oswald breathes, the request like a licking flame between his lips, and when Ed reacts by thrusting in with heightened force, Oswald moans, pleased, but must clarify: “Not just there - my wrist - “

Ed stills for a moment, realization dawning, then the clasp ‘round Oswald’s wrist tautens down and hard, the press so strong Oswald can feel his pulse point pounding against Ed’s palm.

When he comes, he’s more focused on this bruising crush at his wrist than at even the feel of Ed inside him.

***

“Oswald,” Ed announces one morning over breakfast, in that cautious formal tone he always has when readying to broach a topic he knows Oswald won’t want to discuss.

Oswald, still wrapped in a gilded night gown and nursing soreness in his leg from last night’s in-bed activities, merely grunts in response, eyes on the half-eaten lox bagel in front of him.

“Is there anything you would...like to talk about?”

“No, but it sounds like there’s something _you_ want to talk about,” Oswald can’t help but snap, the pain radiating down his leg to his ankle making him irritable.

“Fair enough,” Ed replies, picking lint off his green suit jacket. A nervous tic. “The last three times we’ve had sex - “

Oswald sighs. _Of course_. Of course Ed had noticed, and of course he’d overthought it, and of course he was going to subject Oswald to an awkward conversation about it now.

“You’ve requested that I hold you down in some form,” Ed continues, giving no sign of having registered Oswald’s sigh. “Even that time two weeks ago when we were only kissing in your office - “

“I hadn’t noticed,” Oswald says drily, looking back down at his plate to irritably pick pieces of onion off his bagel.

“I also _noticed_ ,” Ed pauses, putting stress on that last word, “That this began shortly after you saw me at work on Selina’s problem - “

“You clearly have a theory, so out with it.”

“It’s more a question than a theory,” Ed says, gently, “Are you interested in introducing a sadomasochistic dimension to our sex life?”

It’s _embarrassing_ , hearing it said out loud, and in such _removed_ terms at that. Embarrassing and, well, _arousing_ , which is only all the more embarrassing. Oswald knows he’s gone pink all over.

Oswald breathes in. Breathes out.

Ed stares at him, gaze dark and penetrating.

“I think there’s been enough _sadomasochism_ between us, don’t you think?” Oswald spits at last.

“Yes,” Ed agrees, eyes downcast. “But I thought that might be why you didn’t want to bring it up at all, rather than your most genuine answer to the question.”

Oswald frowns. It’s times like this where he really wishes he had fallen in love with someone just a smidge _dimmer_.

“If my genuine answer holds that much weight for you, then: Yes. I’ve thought about it since that night I watched you...at work. I feel very strongly, however, that exploring it any further than we already have would be a colossal mistake, for reasons that I hope are obvious.”

“I agree,” Ed nods, relieved. “I put effort into compartmentalizing that...side of myself. The Riddler side. Inviting boundary collapse between my work and my relationship with you - well. It hasn’t ended in ways I’m proud of in the past.”

An understatement if ever Oswald’s heard one, but he lets it slide.

“Great, so we’re in agreement. With that behind us, I’m going to go take a bath.”

Ed smiles as Oswald stands up, taking a sip of coffee from the emerald mug in his hands.

Oswald smiles back, and hopes desperately that Ed can’t read the quiet disappointment deflating in his chest.

***

It’s a few days later and Oswald’s on his back again, in Ed’s bed this time and with Ed straddled over his hips, sinking down slowly onto Oswald’s cock, the tight pressure intensifying with each descending centimeter.

By the time he’s taken Oswald’s length completely, the globes of his ass are weighing heavily down on Oswald’s hips, effectively pinning him down onto the mattress.

Moaning at the mingled sensation of restraint and the heated grip of Ed around him, Oswald rocks his hips up, just a shift, a broken hum on his lips at the fleeting jolt of friction.

Oswald’s angling himself to rock upward again when he’s stopped by a hand at his throat, resting firmly atop his Adam’s apple.

“No,” Ed snarls. “Don’t move.”

Oswald looks up at him, surprised, eyes wide. A torrent of heat permeates from where Ed clenching around and down on to him.

The pressure at his throat heightens as Ed lifts his hips up, pressing down for leverage as he glides up, up, up, the cold air of the room hitting the exposed base of Oswald’s lube-wet cock as Ed rises up the swell of it.

Ed locks eyes with Oswald, pupils dilated, sweat dripping down his ruffled hair, and slams back down, weight and friction returning all at once, Ed’s thigh muscles bulging with effort as he rises, once more, sinks again, getting more confident in his rhythm with each jab up-down.

Between Ed’s hand at his neck, the pump of him around his cock, and the wild angry-focus in Ed’s dark eyes, Oswald is so close to coming he bites down on his own lip hard enough to draw blood.

Breaths coming ragged, Ed moves his hand from Oswald’s neck to grip his face, _hard_ , fingers bruising.

“Don’t come until I tell you you can,” Ed warns, voice firm.

Oswald gasps at that, toes curling into the cool silk beneath his feet. Struggling to compose himself, he squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deep, then opens them again.

“What are you - what are you going to do if I can’t help it?” Oswald asks, syllables atremble.

Ed slides up, then rams down, a wide smile on his face as Oswald sees lime-green _stars_.

“At the risk of sounding cliché,” Ed breathes, low and darkly amused, “I’ll have to punish you.”

Oswald comes, immediately, _instinctively_ , biting down on his lip, more blood filling his mouth, legs shaking beneath Ed’s weight, a strangled incoherent apology fleeing his mouth punctuated by a throaty wail.

Oswald opens his eyes, still gasping - “ _I’m sorry, Ed, I tried to hold it_ \- “

Ed’s eyes are squeezed shut, muscles contracting around Oswald’s softening cock as he jerks himself off, fist moving rigorous and fast, sweat-glistening body tense as he gets closer, and closer, moaning Oswald’s name and spasming erratically around him when he comes, eyes opening to watch ropes of milk-white cum land sticky on Oswald’s belly and panting chest.

Gasping, Ed lowers himself atop Oswald, damp and heavy. Oswald brings his hands around his slim waist, squeezing him closer, semen sticky between them.

“And my - my punishment?” Oswald asks after a few moments, tone light but quivering a touch, cheeks reddening all over again.

“That’s for another time,” Ed breathes, a prick of danger in his tone.

“ _Oh_ ,” Oswald sighs, pressing his lips to Ed’s bare shoulder.

***

They don’t talk about what happened, after, which a small voice at the back of Oswald’s head constantly reminds him is _probably_ a problem, but, between The Bat developing renewed focus on The Riddler and Iceberg Lounge business booming away, they haven’t had the time or energy for anything beyond a few quick makeout sessions in Oswald’s office, anyway.

Oswald warily eyes a stack of paperwork on his desk before he opts to pour himself a drink instead, scotch burning exquisitely on the way down, slowing his thoughts and his worry over Ed, who is currently taking a crack at The Bat and who, Oswald reminds himself _again_ , he had not talked to about the promise they’d mutually broken when Ed’s hand had pressed down on Oswald’s throat and Oswald had let it.

Oswald drains the glass when his door clicks open and in comes Ed, relief smothered by a scarlet flash of fury when Oswald processes the sight of him: hat and customary mask missing, the beginnings of a large purpling bruise atop that high cheekbone, and a slight but distinct limp to his step.

Springing up immediately, Oswald strides over, takes his face into his hands, overcome by the spreading purple-blue of his battered face and the dejected glassiness in Ed’s eyes.

“Did that _nasty_ Bat do this?” Oswald asks, emotion tightening his throat, “I’ll personally see to it that he’s disemboweled - “

“Oswald,” Ed interrupts, turning his face up. Oswald drops his hands.

“What is it?” Oswald asks, concern striking him afresh, something frightening glimmering in Ed’s eye.

“I want you to turn around, pull your pants down, and bend over your desk.”

Ed’s voice is low and almost angry. Oswald blinks, wondering for an absurd moment if this is some kind of joke.

Ed stares down at him, jaw clenched, and Oswald realizes that it very much is _not_ a joke.

“Ed, I haven’t - “

“I’m here,” Ed says, voice dropping lower still, “To collect my punishment.”

Oswald warms, lips parting. There’s no denying it’s an enticing thought, one he’s dreamt of since that night when the word _punish_ had first left Ed’s lips. Oswald stills, conflicted, body blooming, feet and hands itching desperately to _comply_ , but then there’s that worry, scratching insistently at the back of his neck: _You still haven’t talked about this._

Something of this interior wrangle must make itself legible on his face, because Ed softens, suddenly, shoulders slumping, hands over his face as a stuttering exhale passes from his lips.

“I’m sorry, Oswald, I don’t know what’s gotten into - “

“No,” Oswald stops him, feeling _fiery_ now, emboldened by this crack in Ed’s steely exterior. “You’re right. You’re owed payment. So take it.”

It feels deliciously reckless, utterly _self-destructive_ , given Ed’s penchant for a violence he can never quite contain and the horrid remembrance of Ed’s revenge - what he’s done to Oswald already, what he can _still_ do.

This somehow only makes Oswald move faster, self-admonishment giving way to an arousal that runs even deeper, opening up his veins and leaving Oswald’s hands shaky as he unbuttons his pants, pulls them down, briefs next, and bends over the desk as ordered, the top of it cool against his cheek.

Oswald feels unbearably exposed. Utterly split asunder.

He hears the slow tread of Ed’s footsteps approaching. His heart in his throat.

There’s silence, then, agonizing, the warmth of Ed hovering behind him and then -

_Smack_.

The sting is sharp, but the sound of it filling the room even sharper.

Oswald gasps, blood running cold.

_Smack_.

A memory, vivid, distorted: Ed’s mouth a snarl, Oswald bound to a car, Ed’s hand across his face, a shock.

_Smack_.

A memory: the excruciating burn of the bullet’s exit wound, a hot gush of blood down his middle, down his back.

_Smack_.

A memory: ice-cold water filling his lungs.

_Smack_.

A memory: his father’s corpse. Rotten, stinking, shoved in a closet. A dumpster.

_Smack_.

A memory: _I don’t love you_.

“ _Stop_!” Oswald screams. His face is wet, exposed flesh stinging beyond comprehension. “Ed - stop.”

Ed, to his credit, ceases immediately.

Oswald lies still, trembling too violently to feel relief.

He feels Ed slide his pants up over his hips, then gently fold him upward, wrapping his arms around him in a gentle, apologetic embrace.

“Oh, Oswald,” Ed’s voice is watery, hands rubbing circles over Oswald’s shoulder and torso. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. We had agreed this was a bad idea.”

Oswald can’t bring himself to reply.

“Would it be better if I left?” Ed asks, sounding heartbroken.

“No,” Oswald manages, shifting closer into his chest. “Please stay.”

“Of course,” Ed whispers into the shell of his ear.

Ed runs soft fingers through Oswald’s hair, and holds him until his shaking subsides.

***

Oswald sits on his couch, warmed by the popping flames of the running fireplace at the wall. Adjusting the belt of his nightgown, he wraps it closer around himself, savoring the feel of the cool silk on his skin and the soft heat on his face.

He remains lightly shaken by the _incident_ earlier this evening, but he’s slowly settling back into his old contentment, the warm and quiet around him a comfort, Ed out getting them food, soon to return.

_Ed_ , who had held him after, wept quietly into his hair, his touches and whispers unfathomably soft after the roughness of before. Oswald can’t help but to marvel at it, the _dissonance_ of it, that Ed can be so tender and so full of terror all at once.

His chest is swelling with murky emotion when Ed makes his return known, out of his Riddler suit and dressed casually in an oversized sweater in a muted green, that horrid bruise on his face darker now and covering yet more skin.

Ed walks over, dropping the bags in his hand onto the table before them, the smell of Indian takeout hitting Oswald’s nostrils.

“Mmmmm."

Ed rustles through a bag and pulls out a tub of lotion, his weight dropping down on the couch next to Oswald, an almost-shy look on his face.

“I bought this,” Ed says, giving the tub in his hand a small shimmy. “I figured it would help with any irritation of the skin I caused.”

“That’s very thoughtful, Ed, thank you,” Oswald says, quietly amused and hoping Ed doesn’t take said amusement the wrong way.

“You should probably slather it on before we eat - let the healing process begin.”

“Okay,” Oswald moves to take it, then reconsiders. “Can you just apply it for me?”

“Of course,” Ed replies, smiling as though relieved.

Oswald moves to lie across the length of the couch on his stomach, hips over Ed’s lap.

Ed lifts the tail of his nightgown up over his back, irritated flesh exposed, and Oswald’s cheeks go hot, throat constricting before relaxing again, because _this_ , he knows, is what it means to love and be loved by Edward Nygma: naked exposure that can only ever feel like a risk, surrendering to a trust you can never be fully sure he’s earned. Oswald’s heart fills, fear and love giving way to a sticky security.

Ed makes a sad noise, sympathetic, as Oswald hears the lid of the lotion tub circle open.

“That bad?” Oswald asks, slightly muffled by the couch cushion. It doesn’t hurt terribly, then Oswald _does_ have an unusually high pain threshold.

“No,” Ed assures him, dry hand stroking softly over the swell of Oswald’s backside. “Reddened and a little inflamed, but there’s no bruising or signs of serious damage.”

Oswald hums at that, sound deepening in his throat when Ed’s hand, slick with lotion, rubs over the sore spots, a feather-light massage.

“This feel okay?” Ed asks, fingers moving slow.

“Better than okay,” Oswald smiles, pleasure prickling up his spine.

“Don’t get too excited, now,” Ed laughs. “I’m hungry and I don’t want our food to get too cold.”

Oswald makes a play-sigh of disappointment, then closes his eyes with a laugh, relishing the feel of Ed’s hands, with all that they are capable of, caressing him with tenderness: an apology, a confession. A surrender, in their own way.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says again after a few minutes of silent soothing, switching from back-and-forth strokes to rounded ovals.

“I know,” Oswald replies. “It’s okay. I thought I wanted it. I _did_ want it. It was just - “

“Too much.”

“Too soon,” Oswald adds on in agreement. “Maybe someday.”

“Yes,” Ed affirms, giving the rise of flesh beneath his hands a gentle squeeze. “Maybe someday.”

With that, Ed removes his hands and folds the tail of Oswald’s gown back down over his legs.

Oswald flips around with some effort and sits up, brushing his lips against the bruise on Ed’s face: no pressure, just the ghost of a kiss.

“I really am going to _slaughter_ him,” Oswald says, considering the varied painful colors painted atop Ed’s cheekbone. “Would whatever you just rubbed on me help with the pain of _this_?”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Ed sighs. “But I’m not opposed to you slathering it on my face anyway, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Oswald goes to grab the tub but is interrupted by a hand to his forearm.

“Can we eat first, though?” Ed asks, dropping the pleading hand to Oswald’s knee.

“Oh, yes,” Oswald smiles. “I want to hear all about what happened with The Bat anyway. If you’re ready to talk about it.”

“You know, I actually am.”

Ed cups his face with his hand and kisses him, the hot breath of his relieved laughter tickling Oswald’s parted lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lana Del Rey's "Oh Say Can You See," because she is my muse, apparently.


End file.
